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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27446008">take a step back and repeat</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirabilis/pseuds/mirabilis'>mirabilis</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Haikyuu!!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Developing Relationship, Getting Together, M/M, Pining, Slow Build, Slow Burn</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 01:34:29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>11,287</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27446008</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirabilis/pseuds/mirabilis</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p></p><blockquote>
  <p>“Yer not gonna go fall in love with me now, right Omi-kun?” Atsumu jokes. His last words are not used sparingly, like a riddled joke that’s brutal, like cyan blue and chaos is what he shall become. And then what after? </p>
  <p>“Wouldn’t dream of it.” </p>
</blockquote>There are the shadows of glory and greed that eat us alive, some welcome it open arms and others dare to defy. Sakusa gets thrown into the good, bad and ugly of Miya Atsumu and learns along the way.
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>133</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>take a step back and repeat</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>hello! i have returns with skts... and yeah.. it's a band au.. this fic has sort of been a comfort to write.. (also.. if u saw me post this yesterday.. no u didn't uwu).... this was a bit of new territory to write so thank you for giving it a try no matter who read this &lt;3</p><p>here's the <a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5INGVCfxHHyKiUpdD9hcwY?si=jAoPB4I4QemSW7Swm4ds1Q">playlist</a></p><p>cw: language, mentioned drug usage, alcohol consumption and light underage drinking, onychotillomania, trichotillomania, blood, drowning</p><p>pls enjoy!!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>When Kiyoomi was young, he used to play volleyball. That’s a sad story that meets an unfinished ending, and quite frankly a blur in his past. He’s not sure why he decided to pursue the sport, maybe he liked the measly freedom that bound his wrists when he hit the ball, but later would find solitude in his wrists when it  twists to strings breaking in harmousness blues. He played volleyball in middle school, made some friends, lost a few on the way that aligned with his studies, and then when he was sixteen his sister handed him her bass guitar and prompted him to play. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kaede was strange, yet familiar, there was less of an age gap compared to his older brother, but large enough that distance found its way home. She liked the way her curly hair bounced past her shoulders and thus kept it long, and painted Kiyoomi’s nails every once in a while when he was in high school. Kaede was fierce, yet kept to herself, chastising opposite to his brother. Kiyoomi noticed the way she liked to strum the guitar strings like she was proposing to the stars, or she was humming a longing whisper to the ruins she’s built. She owned a stark black Yamaha Bass Guitar that ran like misery and was a bit out of tune when he first tried it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s not sure why she gave it to him, that remains a mystery. Komori thought it was cool that Kiyoomi was playing the guitar and so it became a hobby. A hobby of endless nights, staying late, learning the woes and curves of the instrument like it was endless devotion and repetition, memorizing fair skin to moonlight. When he stayed up past midnight, calloused fingertips, hearty and thick and soft like tethered an asteroid colliding with promise. “You’re not bad.” Komori announces, after school and Kiyoomi’s fingers are tapped as he fixes the chords. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m honored.” Sixteen year old Sakusa Kiyoomi answers dryly, tired and clammy hands continuing to play. He’s not terrible, slowly getting better as Kaede’s lessons can be deemed somewhat resourceful. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was different, but Kiyoomi could learn and he does, and he learns and learns until he loses himself in a void and his fingers are the strings snapping in repetition like a  jaw slicing handsome eyes under purple, neon lights. How long will it take before he breaks? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Morning runs are always good for Kiyoomi, every morning he wakes up before the world rises and Osaka billboards light up with commercial advertisements, daily news, orbiting in circular motions overhead and the sun might poke its head out of the clouds and offer some light to dawn’s husky mornings. His apartment gets lonely, and he fills the emptiness with the exhilaration of the morning fog creeping down his lungs as he jogs the streets. Heart setting on fire and Survivor plays slowly in his ears. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe it’s his escape when he runs there’s the vivid electric hum of seclusion rambling classic rock through his veins and he imagines he’s on stage, sweat pulsing like avaricious consumption that’s eating him alive.  Or maybe, it’s a blind act of compulsion leading him to the end of the line. Kiyoomi’s fingers are the glass shattered on the floor and a certain boy-prince comes with his riches and rags sweeping the mess he has created with his hands that become the broom and dustpan to your fallacy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kiyoomi inhales Osaka’s early morning fog, and there’s a morning promotion of skin care on the jumbotrons, blinding in the midst of the grey streets he steadily jogs through. He should breathe in and out as his legs nagaviate alone, feet beating against concrete, submissive as he exhales. Typically, he wakes up even earlier than today but he had accidentally slept in after spending the night at Shouyou’s hotel room cornered by his fellow bandmates who pleaded with him to join them with a few bottles of sake. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a bad idea, and he had swung back to his own hotel suite before heading outside for fresh air. If it hasn’t already then he’s sure the media has swarmed with articles about their arrival back home in Osaka. Meian had insisted they stay one more night in the district before returning for practice. Only three days ago they flew to Sapporo for their weekend tour. “Take a break,” Meian had told him, when he was drowning in his own sweat post-performance and patted his back kindly, “Let everyone else know will you?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kiyoomi takes a break, palms on his knees as he becomes the reincarnation of yesterday’s performance, fire scalding in his tongue that becomes the tipping point to a dragon’s roar and a voice that drinks his core until he is reborn on a cyan blue stage that glitters gold in its path. His phone buzzes from his back pocket and he fixes his posture as he glares at the receiver for a second before forcing himself to answer, “What is it now?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>An equally irritated voice picks up quickly, “Good morning to you too.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh, it’s just Suna. “It’s my day off.” Kiyoomi says, and he can hear the breathy laugh, dripping with sarcasm. “I also thought I blocked you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You should know better than to block your manager Sakusa.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m on my morning run, why are you calling.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Suna offers a heavy laugh, and a stir of commotion erupts in the background. Kiyoomi can only guess that he was at the studio,because when he was not, if he wasn’t constantly calling him to terrorize him with the willing help of Inunaki. Kiyoomi stares at his nail beds, flaky with the old coat of black nail polish he applied a few weeks ago. Suna’s voice drowns in the white noise that becomes a velvet voice that cries desperate and a riveting mouth on stage and Kiyoomi loses himself for a second. “Have you heard from him?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kiyoomi exhales, try again. “No, I haven’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Suna chuckles, probably leaning a hand to his temple, not muttering the string of curses that follow. “Dammit, he hasn’t been answering my calls. Do me a favor and drag him along with you to the company, Meian’s called everyone for a quick meeting.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not my job to be his babysitter.” Kiyoomi argues and there’s an audible sigh released through the other side. Suna often asked favors like this, not that he wasn’t perfectly capable of dragging that asshole back from the depths of hell himself, he knew that no matter what profane argument Kiyoomi threw back in the end he would comply. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Get it done, persuade him, you’re pretty good at it. You have a half an hour.” and the line ends, and Suna hangs up first. He thought that was his job, and his breath distilled like cremated beginnings in the air as Kiyoomi stands in the middle of the sidewalk, flushed cheeks from the cold for minutes debating. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he starts running, because in the end Kiyoomi is powerless and he hates himself for that. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Their hotel is only a block from the concert arena and three blocks on foot, ten minutes by vehicle as Kiyoomi runs. His lungs catch air, as he swallows harshly and inhales, and then he exhales like danger, danger seethes into his chest and maybe he’s on fire. He sort of finds his way back to the hotel, earbuds spilling from his ears as Beethoven plays.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s used to his lungs catching on fire on when he runs, it’s similar when he strums the guitar, gruesome and devastatingly slow, like ripping the skin off a scab in the thousand years that will follow and you sing a song of despair and mere laughter as Kiyoomi gazes back at the years past. There, thick like blood a voice will emerge from the dust and bend your fingers back until they break. And maybe, like a boy-prince’s rage, he may offer you an ounce of pity before his hands become the gateway to your throat in admonished fulfillment to your demise. Kiyoomi should stop thinking, it’s starting to become dangerous when he daydreams, letting his mind wander too far and he’s unable to escape in his orbiting rage of hunger. </span>
  <em>
    <span>What is it that you crave,</span>
  </em>
  <span> a boy asks in your daydreams, standing at the edge of the world, ready to succumb his larynx and the chords become mangled mess to his repentance. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kiyoomi wonders, and wonders, it comes in a dual package with how he learns, but this is the beginning. Maybe when he shatters under the stage lights, carcass slain like a flower bouquet arranged grotesque yet beguiling in a mysterious aura. It rips your nail beds that become the guitar chip to your melody on a one-person stage. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You should learn a bit more, </span>
  </em>
  <span>a sad song provokes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With all the mindless wondering he does, he doesn’t realize that he’s at the lobby of the hotel building, and as he passes by the reception desk, the mousy receptionist waves him off, curling a strand behind her ear shyly. At some point she’ll ask for an autograph—everyone does. Suna had texted his hotel room number, ending up being on the highest floors as the bastard probably requested and Kiyoomi gets impatient as the elevator beeps once reaching the highest floor and for a minute it’s breathtaking to stop and lean against the view, but he continues to the last door of the hall. Kiyoomi knocks lightly for the sake of the neighbors around and it remains quiet. </span>
  <em>
    <span>What the fuck?</span>
  </em>
  <span> He thinks, and knocks louder, and checks the door. It wasn’t locked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Is he asking to be robbed at any time of day, but this was a secure hotel building, and several surveillance cameras littered through the hall Kiyoomi notes. “Your door was unlocked,” he starts, as he pushes open the door and immediately regrets it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The living area of the suite was a mess, a day’s worth of chinese take-out resting at every counter, a few empty asahi beer cans thrown on the floor as Kiyoomi carefully walked through the maze. The news was on the lowest volume and an alarm seemed to be playing somewhere in the room. “Where the hell are you?” he calls out, and receives no answer as he trudged into the master bedroom. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kiyoomi whips the blanket off to reveal Miya Atsumu, passed out, snoring loudly in the bed and he feels an intense desperation and contempt curl in his stomach as he wrinkles his nose, “Get up.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Atsumu blinks awake slowly, sunlight feeding off of his dark eyelashes and turning into fairy dust that he could crush in the blink of an eye. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Crush him,</span>
  </em>
  <span> the voice that thirsts for a way to breathe whispers. You could do it. “Omi-kun?” he asks groggily in a husky, overly hungover voice. He is also shirtless, a bird’s nest of bleached blonde hair as Atsumu tugs at his scalp, tousling it like a snake charmer and he appears charming, maybe even devastatingly handsome under a microscope. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stare a little longer and you’ll go blind. “Get off your lazy ass, we’re wanted at the studio.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I thought we had a break.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kiyoomi scoffs, searching for the nearest shirt on Atsumu’s bedroom floor. “As did I, and yet here I am.” and he throws it in his direction to which Atsumu catches with ease despite nothing being fully awake. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A lazy smile beaks the walls between them, as Atsumu smirks and rests an elbow on a pillow as he gazes at Kiyoomi like he was a gallery piece at the finest museum in the streets of Paris. Paris, that’s a city he hasn’t traveled to yet. “It’s a pleasure then,” he says, cracking a foolish man's smile at the bottom of the plate broken in pieces. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shut up.” Kiyoomi answers, as Atsumu yawns. Finally sliding his shirt over his broad shoulders, not too stern but well built over the years of training and core exercises. It’s like ashes rest delicately on his skin like the party glitter lingering on his eyelids, old and crusty. His shoulders flex as he lifts the shirt above his head and Kiyoomi diverts his attention to leaving him to change and situate himself in peace while he figures out how to clean the black hole inside his hotel room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Avoid him, the voice says while a writhing fist of fear drenched in a massacre speaks. Kiyoomi chokes on the stage and it’s the same cycle of progression and you could see him fall. Imagine it. Is’t this what you want? “Omi-kun, aren’t you a party pooper?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just shut up, and get dressed.” Kiyoomi commands and Atsumu enjoys it, like he’s greedy himself. Or gluttony came in the form of an angel who kissed the devil too many times and became christened under a bath of blood and citrine dung into his eyes like calamity.  He wants to repent, Miya Atsumu is the one with wings, it’s a shame he will never see the light before it swallows him whole. If gluttony can consume you, then why not the boy with death-feathered wings follow you? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Atsumu does shut up, in favor of his patience and well-being as Kiyoomi shuts the door behind him to leave him to get his shit together. </span>
  <em>
    <span>He always pulls through</span>
  </em>
  <span>, accountability grazes the tip of your tongue, and Kiyoomi moves forward, grabbing one of the trash bags left at the front of his door to sweep all the asahi beer cans. Kiyoomi kind of wants to run, run from Atsumu’s hotel, from the black Yamaha Bass Guitar awaiting for like an empty throne in Hell. Will his legs support him, in the way that the ground holds the weight of the stage when he plays, and like a bow against violent, broken strings who only serve for misery—his legs might become the fragments that become the frame for his splintered hands. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know Omi-kun, you don’t havta clean up.” Atsumu starts from the other room, his voice like a mantra of escaping warmth as he speaks to Kiyoomi. He continues tossing away garbage into the trash bags, as tries to ignore him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kiyoomi snorts, standing up a bit with his back turned away from the bedroom door. There’s a lot of rustling, and footsteps shuffling around in uncertainty before it creaks open fast and there is Atsumu again. He’s probably dressed, and wears a shirt to which Kiyoomi will make no further comments and remain neutral. Atsumu wears a black turtleneck that looks soft to touch, almost as soft as his hair which he moisturizes and gels if not by the makeup crew several times a day, then every minute he’s not in the studio. He realizes that he’s fixed up, the five am shadow under his eyes means he stayed up late working on their new single, and the constant twitch of his left hand means that he’s dying for caffeine. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A cutthroat laugh Kiyoomi offers as he answers, “Who’s going to then? You?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He halts, in the way he realizes that the unfamiliarity of the air seethes across his skin and he wants to demolish it with the shriveled up purity left in his mind. But Kiyoomi doesn’t, and reminds himself to use the bathroom at the studio. “That’s a bit harsh.” Atsumu says, grasping for his keys on the table. “Will there be caffeine at this said meeting?” Desperate, the shadows that could pass for smoky eyeliner as it cried out. He was probably sleep deprived. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We can have that arranged if you hurry the fuck up.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine. But one more thing.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The shadows stir in the blink of an eye, like a dying star giving its last wish. “I’m driving.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>With Atsumu rolling down the streets of downtown Osaka at the highest speed limit possible, they arrive at the studio in world record timing. He also reminds himself to never, ever drive in the front passenger seat next to Miya Atsumu as long as he’s alive. Suna greets them at the lobby, sunglasses knocked low at his eyes as he gives a strained glance at Atsumu and his eyebags. He sighs, whipping off his sunglasses and throwing them in Atsumu’s direction. “Take them, you look like shit.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Atsumu hums, sliding them on. “Always a pleasure to see you Rintarou.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kiyoomi can tell that he’s still hungover, his posture is slight, despite being presently sober in a multitude of ways and being the one to drive them three blocks to the studio without crashing it’s still obvious. Suna blinks back, but remains silent as they ride the elevator and Suna waves at the security guard before they enter. Atsumu leans against the railing, squinting through the gold tinted sunglasses while checking himself out in the mirror reflection. His hand twitches, like there’s a panging hungry for something to hold. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally, the elevator doors slide open slowly as they tumble out. The meeting seems to be about to begin in session as there’s a spread of breakfast food laid out in front of them. Atsumu spotted the caffeine and quickened his pace to reach the table. “You’re just on time.” Inunaki says delightfully, a lollipop in his mouth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Atsumu finds an empty seat next to Hinata who waves at their presence, and munches on a blueberry muffin, feet tucked on the chair making him even smaller than he already was. The other member, Bokuto, was helping himself to the heaping of coffee while crumbs from the lemon scone he devoured. He notices the two of them soon after Hinata and gives an obtuse smile. “You made it guys!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kiyoomi walks over to the coffee machine, and Akaashi who’s the boyfriend of said Bokuto Koutarou is already filling up a plastic cup as he hands it to him in a peace offering. He musters the best “thanks,” he could give Akaashi as his eyes with gunmetal blue concentration harden before relaxing and nodding a quiet smile. He was sometimes almost as unreadable as Atsumu. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But currently Atsumu strays in his seat, as Hinata hands him a chocolate croissant. They share a look that lingers too long and Kiyoomi darts away from that side of the table to concentrate on Inunaki brushing off crumbs and clearing his throat before speaking. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We apologize for the sudden meeting, we know you’ve been enjoying your small break.” he starts, as he pulls out a small tablet, together the four of them cram their heads together to see whatever Inunaki just pulled up on the screen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kiyoomi recognizes himself immediately, a close up view of their last concert and in the video the cheers get louder as Atsumu sings through the microphone. Despite the memory being crystal clear, Atsumu’s voice vibrates through his ears like gaudy laughter, when he sings for him, at him and then sees the side-eye Atsumu gives him when his voice is the stage itself. He plays the bass guitar fervently, like he has a purpose and almost scoffs inwardly. Kiyoomi could spot Atsumu from miles away, his voice is so distinct, passionate, vocal and articulate and there’s the untouchable bubble surrounding him that becomes the mold that structures Kiyoomi’s destruction. It begins with his fingers turning into crumbles of the lasting remains of what he may be remembered as. Think about it, who can forget the name Miya Atsumu? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>No one can. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Is this the concert from a few days ago?” Hinata asks, poking his head further towards the screen as Atsumu draps an arm around his chair, leaning close. What is that a challenge? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We look awesome.” Bokuto says, eyes widen in amazement as if it’s not everyday that they spend hours rewatching tapes of their past performances as Inunaki belittles them on their improvement. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Atsumu looks smug, strapped along Hinata’s chair as he crosses his legs and pops open a Monster energy drink. “Of course we do Bokkun.” and then he crosses his arms over his head after taking a long sip. It’s gruesome and lengthy, as if he wants to stare into the souls of the sailors to lead their boats into the sharp rocks of the sea. “But this isn’t the reason why you called us is it?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Inunaki sucks on his lollipop and throws the stick blindly, barely missing the trash can. “Actually, there isn’t much of a catch. Our charts have been rocketed in the past week thanks to Adriah’s financial tactics.” and he gives a broad smile, like there is more to the story. “All you have to have to do is use that pretty voice of yours and avoid getting into shit, or messing up that decent reputation we’ve managed to salvage.” Even Kiyoomi knows this was directed towards Atsumu. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He throws his head back a bit, nudging his sunglasses as he meets Inunaki. And they slide off Atsumu’s nose revealing the dark shadows that swarm like vultures feasting on a corpse hungrily. “No promises.” he answers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Atsumu,” Suna inserts, rolling up the magazine in his hands and hitting him in the head, “we mean it, you’ve been doing well. Don’t mess it up.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hinata blinks slightly confused as Bokuto follows and Kiyoomi focuses on his coffee cup. Atsumu stands up, swaying as his glasses give a tempered view of his husky, brown eyes that damper citrine gold and fidgets with his ring in alignment. Underneath, his skin was raw and torn up, dammit he should ask one of the managers for a bandage. But which one could he ask without getting his head torn off or the unload of unnecessary questions. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Control yourself</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he orders. “Gonna get some fresh air.” Atsumu says as he opens the studio door and walks out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Suna mutters a quick and dirty, “brat.” under his breath and then nudges Kiyoomi. “By the way, Meian wants to see you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Does he?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, best to not keep him waiting.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It takes another twenty seconds to reach the top floor where the management offices for the company are located, and where finances’s offices are nearby the head director’s own space. He’s been there one too many times that even when Meian’s assistant stops to wave and offers to walk him to the door he politely refuses. It’s like walking blindfolded, he can feel his way around the room, and he knocks. Twice. “Come in.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kiyoomi is relaxed enough, he’s removed the rings off his fingers so many times that the skin becomes patchy and rough when bumps into the door and nearly rams his knuckles against the glass. It doesn’t ache yet, he could control himself. It was like his own mantra, leading him to edge, except this time there may be no one stopping him. You can teach yourself to ease the pain, manage to balance the unbearable rage that flows through your veins, and like a thousand times one simple rinse will never suffice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Why bring this up now? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Meian is leaning against his desk, unpacking a new box of expensive goods. He makes a suppressed noise that means he’s not surprised but doesn’t ignore Kiyoomi’s presence when he walks into his office. “Did you call?” He shakes the rose wine bottle, and pulls out a wine opener from his desk drawer and with a swift flick of the wrist Kiyoomi can smell the european sweetness that dries up soon after, a fruity scent lingering. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, Sakusa, thank you for coming. I apologize for dragging you to the studio so early in the morning.” Meian says, flipping up a wine glass also presumably stored in his drawer, filling it with the rich, pink color halfway before holding it out to Kiyoomi. “Would you like to try? It was a gift from Atsumu’s sponsorship.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shakes his head, “I don’t daydrink.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Meian can only answer with a silent, but harsh smile like he wants to say more, or he knows more like Inunaki and the whole world is keeping secrets from Kiyoomi. “I suppose you’re the better drink then him.” and he sets the wine bottle and glass down on his desk before crossing his arms. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Meian-san,” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sakusa.” </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you called me to your office to talk about Atsumu, it would’ve been more convenient to send me a text.” he says with careful regard in his words. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Meian simply chuckles, as if Kiyoomi’s poison-laced words mean nothing but fabricated bite and he replies, “we’re not here to talk about Atsumu, that can wait another day.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Meian waves him closer inside the office from where he stood awkwardly in the middle of the carpet. “The thing is, Atsumu has been increasingly rising over the past month. I mean, look at the charts.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kiyoomi narrows his eyes, it’s odd as if Meian doesn’t know that he already is well informed of Atsumu’s rising popularity. Of course he’ll gain fame, he’s easy going when he’s not knocked out in a cheap hotel on the outskirts of Roppongi or charismatic in the way he draws the attention of the whole room, he knows how to attract his audience. He’s handsome, desirable, a mess in the most vivacious way possible that Kiyoomi can watch him slip and fall and somehow be able to pick himself back up again. Because Miya Atsumu was just like that, a mess, spiraling fist of justice that enjoyed camping out in his apartment at three in the morning listening to Led Zeppelin and sleeping in his bathtub leisurely after getting high.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your point is—” Kiyoomi crushes his dark, ugly thoughts of Miya Atsumu before they begin to take life, as Meian just pleasantly smiles like the head director he is. He will probably tell him the same thing as always, </span>
  <em>
    <span>make sure Atsumu doesn’t get into any messes, or make sure he doesn’t overwork himself. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>But you too, Sakusa, take care of yourself. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Meian doesn’t answer, just takes a quiet rip of his wine and stares at the large windows. Kiyoomi doesn’t wait around to be excused, he already knows the answer. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Stuck in his bathroom, Kiyoomi finds homage in breaking the skin of his nails, the way the guitar chip breaks form against the thin strings in acceptance. But there is no acceptance in waiting for death’s chariot. A chariot has been used and thrown away which is the building blocks to one’s destruction. He stares at himself in the mirror, as his hair piles over his forehead, and he briefly brushes the nape of his neck as strands of hair catch around his finger. His hair was beginning to get longer then he anticipated. Paradise is a curse of hope and misery like harmonious blues visiting one’s voice to peacefully massacre. It’s nothing but a dark paradise, as Kiyoomi stares at the cracks that follow his hands splinter and his palm seethes from rubbing against his head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kiyoomi rinses away the blood, it only takes ten times better than last time. He sits against his bedroom frame, playing idly with his guitar that could use some tuning. Fuck the universe he tells himself. Dammit he also should've asked for a bandage. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He meets Atsumu straight out of highschool, or maybe it was when he was younger. If Kiyoomi is being honest, his teenage years were nothing but a blur, silver lining from the past and present. He was barely seventeen, making rent for his shitty studio apartment in the roughest neighborhoods of Shibuya City. Kiyoomi used to play for the evening crowd on the small stage in this hole in the wall bar located below a Thai Takeout restaurant in Ginza. It was spacious enough, but the stage itself he used to play his guitar on was small and compact. It was like sitting on the edge of a cliff while someone prompts for you to jump off. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a miracle that he lands the side hustle, and was paid in the leftover tips by the bustling customers and late night drinkers who have a tendency to stay past closing hours and drink away their sorrows. Seventeen year old scrawny, lonely Sakusa Kiyoomi was pretty good at playing the bass guitar, better than he was a year ago. The money was decent, enough to keep the bare minimum stocked in his fridge and pay his landlord who was nice enough to not  count the money he placed in her hands every month. Maybe there was salvation or a reckoning when he played for the late night crowds every night, like he was a scapegoat to the universe and the shackles breaking his ankles got lighter every time he played. Maybe there was hope for Sakusa Kiyoomi. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was one, hot summer night after his shift was over and he had finished playing for the evening. The bartender handed him a cherry vodka and only winked because he knew that Kiyoomi was underage, “it’s been practically watered down.” he tells him before fixing a lime wedge for a customer's beer at the other end of the table. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There would be another performer that would end the night for today, and Kiyoomi had no idea who it would be. Until a boy stumbles across the stage, an electric guitar at his hip like an instinct or familiarity to the way a seventeen year old Sakusa Kiyoomi is tethered to a bass guitar who ran like misery and some nights perilous alleviation had risen. The boy was blonde, dyed most likely as under the starry stage lights Kiyoomi could see the brown-black roots at the nape of his neck and the top of his head. He was quiet as he tossed his head up, and scanned the crowd and started to sing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kiyoomi clenches the vodka glass as it slices his throat and meets the boy’s voice in singularity to decimate his mind all together. He was distracting, in a black tank top and he stands taller when he leans close to the microphone like it’s pure heaven on this hellish earth. His voice is deep, but not too deep as he muses his hair, carding it through his fingers mindlessly and tips his throat back. Sweat runs down his jaw and Kiyoomi must be insane. The boy strums the guitar lazily as it fills the bar and he knows the whole crowd is silent. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a chipped grin that blinds him, his voice is a curse and Kiyoomi does not know what to feel for this stranger. Maybe anger. “Who’s that.” he asked the bartender. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The boss found him on the streets, kinda like you. He’s not bad isn’t he?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kiyoomi forces himself to look away at the burning boy who enjoys himself way too much, touch him and you’ll catch on fire. It’s unfortunate, since this wouldn’t be their first or last meeting to come. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The studio is oddly silent, both Bokuto and Hinata have left for the day as today’s schedule was surprisingly less busier than the past weeks. Kiyoomi sits on the couch comfortably, resting a bottle of black nail polish on the table in front of him. He thought it would be best if he added a new layer to distract himself, maybe it’ll enable him to stop picking at his nail beds or constantly worrying whether they’ll be in perfect condition when he plays. The way Atsumu’s voice is his source of income next to his charming personality on camera and on stage, Kiyoomi’s hands, his fingers that controlled his heartbeat, the flow of his lungs and allowed him to breathe, without it he would simply have no other reason to live. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s not very good at painting his nails though, sometimes, Kaede would swing by his apartment on her off days at the restaurant she worked at in Downtown Osaka to help Kiyoomi prep before concerts, like the simple things such as painting his nails. But she was busy and this was a measly task anyone could do sufficiently. While he tucks himself on the couch, Atsumu is in the corner of his eyes inside the studio, big earphones flipped weirdly under his neck as he closes his eyes. Kiyoomi almost knocks down the nail polish staring, and Atsumu opens his eyes rapidly before scribbling down in his notebook. Tongue stuck out of his lips in deep concentration and his blonde hair is cascading messily but he obviously doesn’t give two shits as he blows a strand out of his eyes before looking up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Look away, before you turn to stone Kiyoomi reprimands, and he knows Atsumu is watching him now. He returns to coating his first layer in peace but is struggling as his hands are shaking, his bandage getting in the way of the brush against his nail beds. “You need help Omi-kun?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Atsumu is standing above him, earphone still looped around his neck and resting at his shoulders. He seems genuine, and Kiyoomi would like to refuse but the itch at his fingers wants to accept. Kiyoomi glares before replying: “don’t fuck it up, or—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Their hands meet in an intense but rapid brush as Atsumu splits a bloody grin, it’s shit-eating and grotesque like a broken butterfly with snapped wings as it flutters its wings once more taking its last flight. “Or yer gonna do what Omi-kun?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nothing,” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then gimme yer hand, yer first coat of nail polish is terrible.” he clicks his tongue as he brings Kiyoomi’s hand close to him and dips the brush in the polish carefully layering on the first finger. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kiyoomi realizes how close he is, closer then sometimes when they’re on stage and Atsumu faces him when he sings, like Kiyoomi is the only one that’s meant to listen to him. Is that supposed to mean something? Atsumu hovers over his hand, that same concentrated gaze at Kiyoomi’s fingers as he gently caresses his palm in order to fully surface, finishing the first coat of black nail polish. “I don’t do my nails often, Miya. Give me some credit.” his voice dives into a whisper and Kiyoomi only sharply inhales. Atsumu stares back up with that dead shit-eating grin that could meet glass in a kiss and a bloody kiss may be what wakes up the sleeping prince in the cursed castle. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But yer hands, they’re pretty.” Atsumu says suddenly like it’s an observation he’s been withholding for the right moment as he continues to delicately hold Kiyoomi’s hand while he moves onto the right hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t say things you don’t mean.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Atsumu smirks, and he’s unable to dictate if his words are ever so genuine. “I’m not lyin’, have you ever played any other instrument?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He makes a soft ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>ah’ </span>
  </em>
  <span>sound as he releases Kiyoomi’s hands and there’s a deft ache that burns like a stage and tyranny is an urchin's venom wasting your last breath. “There,” Atsumu says, “not too bad of a job right?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, thanks.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Atsumu laughs, constricted and quiet and Kiyoomi knows the familiar bloom in the chest. Disgusting. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And when the words become loose desperation to the cage made of gold chains that bite like bloody kisses that do not exist, what will untangle from Kiyoomi’s well-being? What will come first? And then what after? Will it be his guitar, in a fit of anger he will tear it apart in absolute spite until there that remains is but the dead strings of his broken fingers, torn nail beds and then may there be restitution living free. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kiyoomi does not exist to play freely, because he is not free. He is not perfect, if he was perfect then Miya Atsumu is a mere god of calamity hithering with a chipped sword. Miya Atsumu who enjoys being stoned under mismatched party lights in the dark alleys of Shinjuku and singing for strangers. The band are the puppet strings tying them together, call it a savior. But to Kiyoomi, not even a boy-prince's madness is worth saving. So, can he save you instead? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The following day, Kiyoomi enters his home to hear the shower running. Now this sudden invasion is random, unpermitted and he’s certain he hasn’t given anyone the key or code to his apartment. Except for maybe Inunaki or Suna, as they jokingly insisted that incase they found Kiyoomi passed out on the floor then they would need to be let in. But the truth is, they’re all just so goddamn nosy. Now he’s certain he did not leave the water running when he left earlier to head to the studio to discuss this weekend’s concert in Osaka. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It could be an intruder, or a stalker fan. Now the likability of that is unlikely because Kiyoomi is not captivating according to the majority of fan sites on the internet. He is broodish, dark and mysterious which attracts as much attention compared to Hinata’s bright and bubbly personality and ability to mingle with the audience. Or Bokuto’s radiance and heart throbbing smile, and there’s Atsumuw who can only be described as a deadly ember of spark that creates an explosion that only leaves people gasping for more. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kiyoomi is sure to gently close his door after he enters. The shower is running from his bedroom as the fog creeps past him, his water bill is going to be rocketing sky high. And then he kinda stops. He hears a distinct voice and freezes. </span>
  <em>
    <span>The fuck is he doing here? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s singing, like sadness visiting your bed during dusk before you awaken from a thousand year slumber and the prince’s sword nails you to the stage. Miya Atsumu was singing in his shower, without his permission, and managed to somehow get inside. His voice was low, and almost muffled through the shower, and Kiyoomi has the terrible, ugly feeling that sitting outside his own bathroom door listening to Miya Atsumu sing wouldn’t be so horrendous. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Be quiet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The door bursts open and Kiyoomi tumbles back on his feet. Atsumu stands above him, gleeful and not a bit sheepish. “Well hello there Omi-kun.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What the fuck are you doing in my apartment.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Atsumu sighs, rubbing his neck on his shirt. He didn’t use any of Kiyoomi’s towels. And when he peeks into the bathroom it’s clean. Broken strings of  bacteria could spread through the mutual use of instruments, make sure to wipe your guitar four times a day. “Well, I sorta got locked out of my own place and yer’s was looking nice.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How’d you let yourself in?” Kiyoomi asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shrugs, as he undoes the third button of his shirt which sticks to his chest proactively and Kiyoomi feels like a tsunami has swept all of the organs in his stomach.”Suna gave me a spare key a while back.” </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Atsumu smiles cheekily as his stomach rumbles. “Hey Omi-kun I’m kinda hungry.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He throws on his baseball cap, tugging it low on his forehead and burns Kiyoomi with his broad jawline that could shatter neon lights in absolute magnetism. “How do you feel about eatin’ pizza?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The pizza eatery’s doorbell chimes upon their entrance as Atsumu pushes the door open and Kiyoomi spots a hungry grin from underneath his mask. Atsumu orders for him to find a seat and walks up to the counter area without even asking Kiyoomi what he wants. “I got this Omi-kun, lemme handle the ordering.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kiyoomi finds a seat against the window, near the back of the eatery it was near nighttime as the sun has already fallen behind Osaka’s tall media buildings and neighborhoods it was busy during this time of the late evening. He slips his mask below his chin and ducks down to avoid eye contact. It was a good thing that Atsumu had snagged a baseball cap, everything about him stood out, from his tall prestige that broadened his shoulders, his scissor-cutting smile and lean build that automatically heeds his expectations.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He spots Atsumu standing in line, conversing with the cashier, and he winks happily in the midst of conversation. Kiyoomi leans back against his chair and watches the cars zoom by on the busy, nightlife that the eatery lit up the whole scenery, checkered patterned booths and pleather fabric curls into his fingers. He wants to rot away in a puddle of melted, wax that scorches the pads of your fingers like safe landing. Minutes later, through the small, crowded line he finds Atsumu submerged from weaving and in and out of the tables to approach their own booth. Atsumu slides smoothly into the seat across them and pushes the pizza plate in Kiyoomi’s direction. “Eat up Omi-kun!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What is this?” He asks, lifting the plate to see the grease at the bottom is bare and Kiyoomi is kinda hungry now. Dammit. It’s always Miya Atsumu who is stuffing his mouth with what appears to be a Hawaiiian pizza, cap off his head as his blonde curls bounce candidly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Atsumu swallows, setting down his own pizza while shaking parmesan cheese on his slice. “That’s a Meat lover’s pizza,” and he pauses, before crookedly smiling that gruesome, irresistible smile where tomato sauce lingers at the corner of his mouth. Too distracting. “It won’t kill you to have a taste.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Be quiet.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Only if you give it a try.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Atsumu rambles, talks about his music, the notebook he wears like first instinct, the upcoming concert. Kiyoomi offers minimal input and it doesn’t make a difference. After they finish, and Kiyoomi wipes his hands numerous times, Atsumu waves a thanks to the owners at the register and skips outside. “Hey Omi-kun.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kiyoomi is breathless, being tugged by a spiral, it is not rage that becomes a temperamental web of chaos. “What now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wanna get a tattoo?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This must’ve been part of Atsumu and his evil plan. Corruption, and to get them in big trouble. He knew he liked to pursue the rebellious role but this was a surprise. And what does Kiyoomi do, he lets himself get dragged across the street to the nearest tattoo parlor because his irrestience is an ugly mastermind behind beauty. Cold tile cuts down on the heel of his shoe as he enters, and Atsumu walks up to the front desk. “Ah, Miwa, I didn’t think you would be on this shift!” He says, acting familiar to the girl who wears a vibrant, green snake tattoo coiled around her arm as she blinks twice towards Atsumu under his baseball cap.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If it isn’t the second Miya twin, you’re not dead yet. Shocker.” she says casually, and Atsumu leans against the counter and huffs in mild defeat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He nudges for Kiyoomi to sit in one of the seats as Miwa comes around the desk counter and gazes at Atsumu with a hard stare that dissolves into a smile. “In the flesh. Now, how about you set me and my friend,” and he winks back at him, “with a tattoo.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Miwa rolls her eyes a bit, sitting down on the chair and beckons Kiyoomi to sit. “You must be Sakusa, I’ve heard a lot of you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I take it those were good things you heard.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She looks up at Atsumu, grinning for a split second. “Depends on who you ask. Now, is there a specific design you’re looking for?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kiyoomi knows this is impulsive, ridiculous. He wouldn’t look good with a tattoo, anything too obnoxious would surely get his ass kicked by both of the managers, maybe Adriah would spare him if he’s lucky. And yet, here he was, laying back on the chair with Atsumu grinning like a downright fool and victory wearing a crown on his pinkened lips slathered with cherry chapstick. “Something simple is fine.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he closes his eyes, as Miwa makes a satisfied noise and gets to work. He hears buzzing noise but remains calm. The needle would be clean right? Nothing would happen, when he touches the strings of agony against his guitar they won’t break under the tension? He hears Atsumu talking to Miwa in the background, as the needle works on his skin. Five minutes, ten minutes pass maybe a decade passes by in Kiyoomi’s mind. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re all done.” Miwa finally says, and Kiyoomi opens his eyes. He looks to his left arm to see an armband marked around his bicep, it’s not too thick but fits nicely while formed around his muscle. Atsumu leans in close, impressed. The heat is sickening, and his arm is a bit sore. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Atsumu crosses his arms, tilting his head to inspect all of Kiyoomi. Will he be swallowed whole like the rest of them? “I like it Omi-kun, it’s fitting.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s nice.” is all Kiyoomi answers. All he can answer is that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Miwa laughs, “not much of a talker are you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Atsumu is next as Kiyoomi waits across from him, plugging in his earphones and letting the music wash over him, maybe broken strings can become your beacon of hope like a siren's voice is the sailor’s use of navigation. To death, you will not be next is the only difference. Atsumu appears to be shirtless, sitting flat on his stomach as Miwa hovers over his back, and he’s unable to see what the design he chose was. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Why did he want to do this in the first place? They were not friends, friends do not go get pizza or tattoos together. That was reserved for whatever the fuck catagory is belongs to. An hour later, it’s pitch black outside and Atsumu is finally buttoning his shirt back on as he pays. As his back faces Kiyoomi, he sees it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The tattoo, it seems to be a butterfly with its wings expanded over his shoulder blades and surfacing his spine. It was eerie, ambiguous but beautiful and dangerous like heavenly fire or enigmatic persona morphing into a boy who’s single desire is to be a merciful god of hell and rule with a staff. Freedom, is that what Miya Atsumu craved? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Twice, his fingers are wrapped with loose tape; he's able to maneuver his hands perfectly. There’s sweet confinement in the space as he sits back against the wall behind the door that leads to the stage. Kiyoomi exhales harshly, the thin scarf around his neck is tight, like savory aspiration. The black tank top he’s been left in leaves him cold, as the purple, sequined jacket thrown over his shoulders slides down, and he inhales as it sticks to his chest, was he sweating already and the concert hasn’t even begun yet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Five metal rings rub against his skin to hide the swells that become poison, metal against metal and Kiyoomi idly plays with the silver chains connecting the rings. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I think you’ll like this look, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Akaashi had told him while they were getting ready hours before. He scoffs a terrible, broken laugh to himself, clutching himself close. Hinata is speaking to someone on the phone, not discreetly as the orange flutters in his eyes and he frowns. Bokuto is speaking in a low voice to Akaashi who sits at the snack table, holding a water bottle elegantly but managing to lend his ears to Bokuto. He hasn’t seen Atsumu yet, which is fortunate as he takes a few hours to get ready. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally, he hears the door slam open as Suna hurries behind. “You’re on in five minutes.” he says, almost out of breath as Atsumu steps out, musing his air while Suna slaps his wrist. “That didn’t take half an hour for nothing.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Atsumu gives a swallowing gaze at Kiyoomi, citrine meeting blood in a bloody kiss with a fist and he gives a shy smile. Shy. Huh, that’s one way to describe it. “How do I look Omi-kun?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re shirtless.” he points out the obvious. Now this revelation is horrid, underneath the heavy, black fur coat that shapes his shoulders, Kiyoomi turns his head, taunt muscles, and the bits of eyeliner under Atsumu’s eyes he almost looks sleepy. He looks as if greed lifts his jaw gently before neon delirium holds him tight. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Atsumu rubs the back of his head, laughing gingerly. “Ah, yeah, it’s a new look I wanted to try out.” brutal. “Yer not gonna go fall in love with me now right Omi-kun?” Atsumu jokes. His last words are not used sparingly, like a riddled joke that’s brutal, like cyan blue and chaos is what he shall become. And then what after? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wouldn’t dream of it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Atsumu tilts his head back, surveying the curve of his shoulder as Kiyoomi pulls up his jacket. As he whispers </span>
  <em>
    <span>good</span>
  </em>
  <span>, is the first to step out on stage and waves to the adoring crowd. “How are we doing tonight everyone?” he shouts as screams pour in, the lights dim and scarlet red drips down his hands as he lifts his guitar and the rest of the band gather in position. Atsumu takes a step towards the microphone, pulling at his hair and he knows Suna is cursing at him somewhere in the crowd. “We are Heavenly Fire.” he says in a low voice, and Kiyoomi begins slowly and steadily. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Play with me Omi-kun, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Atsumu says, his eyes swarm like golden maggots, maybe purity wanes its true colors in the night. His voice is like a blessing sent from the depths of hell, as Atsumu’s chest flares, and his hip digs rose gold, arching into his leather pants as Kiyomi’s heart beckons to the call. Fuck all of this, he wants to scream and tear his bass guitar to pieces. He’s calling, and Atsumu bits his lips as his throat runs red in a raging kaleidoscope. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And so, Kiyoomi plays. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His hands are on fire, scorching, and burning as soon as he lifts his fingers from the strings. Kiyoomi can feel the heat, the cold against his shoulder as Atsumu waves his final good-byes. He sees Atsumu breathing heavily, weaving his fingers through his hair tenaciously, he looks like bewitching misery-- misery is beguiling torment that turns in Atsumu’s eyes as he wipes the sweat from his brow. Is this where his lungs throttle in malevolence, as Kiyoomi snatches a water bottle from the stands? He can see Atsumu from the corner of his eyes, grabbing one as well as dumps it on his head and harshly grins at Kiyoomi. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That was fun,” He says, heavy breathing swooping into inner caves subsiding misery blues clashing with moonless lining of his skin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Suna claps, as Hinata and Bokuto come herding outside and they stand outside. Atsumu is dressed, trading his fur coat for a blue bomber jacket, and his earphones stuck into his ears as he sits on the bench across from the van. “We should celebrate!” Hinata suggests and murmurs of agreement spread throughout the rest of the group.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s too late,” Atsumu answers. “And I’m tired.” he yawns, stretching his arms as he staggers to stand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kiyoomi eyes him, he seems restless, almost fidgety. Atsumu is the first that enters the van and the rest follow. The ride to their apartment is filled with silence, as Atsumu rests against the window staring blankly. Unreadable, unthinkable, gentle being blistered with sore muscles, his voice must hurt as he isn’t as talkative. It must be close to midnight by the time they arrive on their floor. Bokuto had driven to Akaashi’s place in his separate, leaving Hinata bidding a tired good-bye. “Get some rest you two!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They pause at Kiyoomi’s door and Atsumu tugs at the strands of his hair, blonde becomes wrangled dirty-blonde in morbid nighttime as he starts to speak. “Do you have coffee?” he asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He bats an eye, but it’s half-hearted and decayed. “Can I come inside?”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kiyoomi unlocks the door as Atsumu steps forward, already seemingly familiar with his apartment. Of course he is, as if he hasn’t been here too many times unpermitted. He drops his keys on the counter as he walks over to the espresso machine. Atsumu sits back against the marble counter, tilting his head backwards to peer at Kiyoomi and shadows loom a grim reaper in gleeful repercussions. Hooded, and a scythe is silver tints against his skin like a torn wound. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>While the coffee brews, Kiyoomi washes his hands at the sink, ambiguity is cut down at his cuticles and the rings break skin like a fistful punch to the stomach. He undoes the chains, and tosses the rings to his side. The fresh coat of nail polish stares at him with bait, clean shaven against his nail beds. And there, Sakusa Kiyoomi loses himself in the repentance against his palms, scars may lead you to the milky way that dissolves across destruction. “You played really well tonight.” Atsumu says suddenly as Kiyoomi is stirring the sugar (five packets splenda per Atsumu’s instructions). </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hands him the mug as he takes it with a hushed smile and holds it carefully. “Did I now? To be recognized by the one and only Miya Atsumu is an honor.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Atsumu chuckles, and Kiyoomi stands across him and he isn’t sure what to make of this. But mundane is not how to word his thoughts, genuine or prosaic. “Sakusa Kiyoomi, yer truly a wonder.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Malevolence is the beautification that rests on his shoulders sculpted by hell fire and sweat can be a shrine to a certain siren, and his voice is what leads you to your demise. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Am I right? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kiyoomi gets a call, two days later at four in the morning. “Have you heard from him?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Suna sounds panicked, which is nothing of the usual, Atsumu may be carefree, selfish, but he’s considerate it’s his motto to always return. Kiyoomi thinks he’s dreaming, as he blinks awake, flicking the bedside light at his nightstand to get a better grasp at what Suna was saying. “It’s four in the fucking morning Suna Rintarou, don’t you have a tracker on him by now?” he croaks out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He is unappreciative of his shitty joke, and only continues, “I texted him last night, he was working late at the studio but it’s over a day and his phone has been turned off.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He isn’t my problem.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But you care don’t you?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why are you calling again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kiyoomi doesn’t like the odds of this situation. Atsumu must’ve been overworking himself, tossing and turning trying to come up with this weekend’s performance. He imagines huddled at the studio, wearing those thin wired glasses that perch on his nose only when his eyes get too murky. Sitting criss-crossed on one of the couches, hundreds of music sheets sprawled across the floor. It’d be chaos incarnated as Atsumu would spend countless hours awake until the sun rose. He also knows the insomnia that keeps him alive, thriving or maybe it’s the fear. What is it that’s been eating you alive Miya Atsumu? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Inunaki suggests that the rest of them linger around the studio in case Atsumu wanders back. Suna is running around downtown Osaka, Adriah was busy calling every popular in the area while Hinata tried contacting his brother. His brother was a grey area to Kiyoomi. He remembers seeing them on the billboards though, when he was in high school 2SOULZ was extremely popular, two brothers favored under the spotlight. Miya Atsumu has been no true stranger to Kiyoomi, he was younger when he was working with his brother, his hair wasn’t dyed, tousled instead in a low undercut. He didn’t wear as many earrings, and he wasn’t found in a back alley, singing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t know why they disbanded, he’s never asked. He assumed it impacted Atsumu greatly for him to never bring it up. Miya Osamu was a drummer, he was a lot like his twin brother, tall, quieter, almost as charismatic as his brother. It was a talent. A tall tale of two broken souls never reunited. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s around dusk, when Kiyoomi finally reaches his apartment. He’s at his floor when he notices a hunched figure at the end of the hall; where his door was. The blonde strands peeking from around the corner are a dead giveaway, as Kiyoomi jogs over. “Miya?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is indeed Atsumu, and to say that he was sort of appearing never before as if he was hit by a bus is an understatement. He looked wrenched, like he stood under the rain for too long. He smelled of cheap sandalwood and Asahi beer, and when he gazes up at Kiyoomi from where he lay crumpled against the door, he looked lost. Lost in the sea, or in the universe as if he had no purpose besides a voice to pay the price of his dubiety. He was a terrible, terrible person, to find Miya Atsumu breathtaking, sitting against his door. But Atsumu isn’t weak, he’s ugly in it’s cruel mortality, and crucified heart strings severed. He’s also ethereal, that his voice is perfect, yet he himself is not perfect. Maybe that’s when the heavenly fire truly burns. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Heya Omi-kun, long time no see.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kiyoomi scoffs, because this was ridiculous. “Where the fuck have you been?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t tell me yer worried about me?” he asks, lips slumping in a curve. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Suna is going to murder you.” Kiyoomi responds, hoisting him up as the alcohol rubs against his clothes, he is plastered. “And you need to take a shower.” he adds, as he unlocks the door quickly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mhm.” he mumbles, as they stumble through Kiyoomi’s apartment in pursuit of his bathroom. He gently leads Atsumu into the bathtub, as he trips over his feet but Kiyoomi is already there to catch him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He starts the cold water, as Atsumu slumps against the head of the bathtub as water soaked his skin, deepening into his chest as it spreads up his neck when he lowers himself subconsciously. Kiyoomi flicks the bathroom light on.  “Wash off, I’ll come back with towels.” he says, beginning to stand up. A hand grabs his wrist, ice cold as Atsumu blinks twice, citrine can become a gem, carmelized in the depths of winter like a starving leopard starving to death. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What the hell?” he shouts, as he staggers over the edge of the bathtub and his feet hit water. Atsumu laughs, and Kiyoomi glares. But then, Atsumu’s smile drops and he pulls at his hair, picking at his nail beds. He looks ghostly, as water shines down his neck, cradling his jaw like a newborn baby. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Am I perfect Omi-kun?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Atsumu harshly laughs, thumping against Kiyoomi’s chest and his heart blows into a thousand pieces. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Too close, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he wants to snap and push him away. But he stays. He stays for hours, freezing in water while cramped in his small bathtub. Miya Atsumu shudders, his shoulders shaking as he starts to cry. He cries and cries, and Kiyoomi sits there letting him. And thus, the devastation of a boy-prince’s rage has passed over, and the calm before a storm begins. Is he lost? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kiyoomi hates to admit it, but Atsumu is a pretty crier. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They fall asleep on Kiyoomi’s bed. It’s been hours after, and Atsumu quietly snores, dried up and tucked in between the comforters as Kiyoomi sits up on the other side of the bed. He’s already texted Suna, as the whole bedroom is silent, a gruesome silent breezing through poisoned meadows and a bed of flowers are the silhouette for one’s strength and fortification. He looks ten years younger, when he sleeps there lies a peaceful face, but behind the relaxed, forged appearance he knows nightmares visit Atsumu at night.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kiyoomi feels weird, not dirty, because if so he would enjoy running to the bathroom and cleaning after them which he doesn’t. He doesn’t take a shower after being relinquished from Atsumu’s coveting grasp, they hold each other, and Kiyoomi doesn’t think at all. No god of calamity can reside in Atsumu, it’s just a mundane boy who may have grown up too fast to learn how to walk before he could run. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Look at what not stopping to think has made you. Just stop it. Stop thinking. Don’t think at all. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re so lucky that you’re not buried six feet below ground right now.” Suna hisses, rubbing his temples for the millionth time in the last hour. Atsumu flashes a lopsided smile, but it’s been tamed like a lynx under the beckoning of hierarchy. He’s quieter this morning. Atsumu had awakened first, found rummaging through his fridge and kindly (surprising?) asking permission before he finished off the rest of the milk in the carton. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kiyoomi sees the twitch of the hand, the mused hair, and he wonders how much sleep he had gotten last night. “Yer so scary when yer mad Rintarou, I didn’t know that you had in you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just because you’re three months older than me doesn’t I won’t still kick your ass.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Atsumu cackles, the light gracing his presence finally. Kiyoomi may be able to breathe, “yeah, and what are you gonna do? Call ‘Samu?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then there’s a sudden crash, and Bokuto and Hinata come herding into the studio at light speed. “Atsumu!” they shout, and Kiyoomi remembers that thankfully the walls are soundproof. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Atsumu stands up, drawing himself in. “did’ja miss me?” he asks and Bokuto sucker punches him in the best before drawing him into a hug. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I missed ya man! Now don't ever leave us again, me and Shouyou were worried sick.” Hinata besides him nods furiously while patting Atsumu’s forehead and checking his temperature. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re not sick are you? Should I run and get some cold medicine?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kiyoomi clenches his teeth, biting down on quickened resentment, bitterness leaving him guilt and anguish. “Don’t worry, thanks to Omi-kun over here, I got a shoulder to cry on.” Atsumu says, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>oh, he does remember all of it. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>They look a bit confused, probably for the best as Atsumu gives him a wink. Bokuto herds along with him, and they both send into the recording studio. Kiyoomi sort of pauses, and then wonders. He tends to wonder on occasion, what life would be like if he hadn’t met Atsumu. Peaceful for instance, solitude, graceful harbingers docking the spokes against the deck, sweeping the shore wouldn’t it get lonely after a while? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He remembers though, through the years, the good, bad and ugly of Miya Atsumu. When he was just a skinny high schooler with charisma and a non-existent hair dye job, a legacy would be slapped on his back as he was pushed into the real world. Kiyoomi knows too much about him, his habits, his lifestyle and the tendencies that grapple his ankles and pull him into the dark, rich blue sea. Drowning under the pressure, if it’s not you then breaks first, then will it be him? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He dislikes pickles, but lives off of energy drinks if there’s coffee is his second choice. He wears his headphones the wrong way for whatever way, but at some point it’s not abnormal as Atsumu sinks too far into his music, and slips on concentration to even fix it. He has an obsession with listening to Led Zeppelin, sings off key only in the shower but in reality his voice grows sweet, higher pitch because he thinks no one is listening. He’s always awake, in the fleeting moment of time breaking his spin in two because if he closes his eyes then fate will join in the torture and paint his body with wax like a mournful mural. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Atsumu is staring at him through the glass from inside the recording room where he speaks with Bokuto, thin-rimmed glasses knocked on his nose, blonde strands like a flirtatious prince summoning the hand of a maiden that gets tucked behind his ear.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <em>
    <span>Come and search for me, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he invites. </span>
  <em>
    <span>And see what will happen. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kiyoomi recalls the month after Kaede had handed down her guitar. He was frustrated, the process of learning the chords wasn't  too hard to learn. It was similar to memorizing for school. Like it was a job, and yet he wasn’t getting paid for it. Kiyoomi sat in his room everyday after school, door shut and the emptiness was soon filled with the technique exercises he forced himself to before he played. Though he wasn’t as lucky in being able to be lended a metrometre from his sister, he bought by himself at the record store on the corner of the street near his high school. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So he learns, and learns. And what comes after the bruised fingers from curling over </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Beginner’s Guide to Learning How to Play the Bass Guitar</span>
  </em>
  <span> in the middle of the night, feathering carefully over the chords. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He might’ve met evil on the way to victory, fear clouds his judgement and is chained to the instrument like it’s single life source. So breathe, breathe Kiyoomi. It’s the least that you could do. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why’d you stop playing the guitar Kaede?” seventeen year old Sakusa Kiyoomi learns to be curious in the pursuit of what he may call happiness. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her eyes twinkle, dimming soon after. “Well, I didn’t have anyone to play for.” and she  adds, “and I wanted to impress someone but that went so well.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But are you happy?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kaede rolls her eyes, and the family resemblance has never been more evident, the quiet curl of sadness alluding over her lips, and the unfamiliarity of her eyes as they vanish without a trace. “Happiness is fake.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Are you ready?” </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Play with me Omi-kun. Teach me. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Miya Atsumu whispers through the microphone like a blessing sent from hell. Is there a devil’s oath in a boy wearing a choker around his neck like a wish come true, painted nails tapping against the case of the microphone. Ivory licking gelled up strands of blonde tendrils as he takes a shaky hand through his hair in searing confidence. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Atsumu is staring at him through the corner of his eyes, a riveting sensation creeds at his fingertips like afternoon worship, maybe there is such sacred darkness. The audience is waiting, beauty marking his fingertips and he continues to gaze through Kiyoomi like a lost soul and with lesser modesty, winged with kohl eyeliner. His lips gruesomely bathed in liquored gold stage lights. A signature wink sent across the crowd as he walked the stage, hyping up the crowd. But he knows better. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he sings, sings, sings. It drowns Kiyoomi, tucks him good-night and strikes when soft spoken. Bokuto is on a roll, as he beats in rhythm, drumsticks beating, heart considerate as Hinata looks like he’s having fun and they’re on a roll. The heat is unbearable, metal against metal as lavender turns grey over the years. Atsumu is blinding, and he’s not sure if he’s stil playing. His fingers do not break, they withstand the ache. The ache is brandished in horizontal promises, and Kiyoomi tips his head back. He was enjoying this. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He spots Atsumu, nearing him as he holds the microphone in his hands. Ethereal, untouched, splinted in too many pieces of perfection that blends in with the monsters visiting him every night. He will learn all parts of him one day. But for tonight, Kiyoomi returns the smile, and Atsumu is truly heartbreaking. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There are no means for a dark paradise, if heavenly fire graces you like a pledge. And so, Kiyoomi steps forward to find peace finally. You’ll learn a little more everyday and those are the infinite days in which Miya Atsumu are the last words you chant. And there he is, resting in your bed, holding your guitar as he plays a few chords lazily. “Are you happy Omi-kun?” he teases, oh the stories to tell, the promises to keep and withhold. Just say it already. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I think I am.” </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hi. you have reached the end. i thank u for reading this. i've been focusing on it for a few weeks and too see it end, another au is a relief but bittersweet. this fic kinda started after reading dark heaven ahaah...this was fun to write, explore, this has been sort of a secretish project.. before i dive into schoolwork and must begin my bigger projects hehe.. </p><p>exploring the depths of the complicated works of atsumu and sakusa was fun, i was skeptical at times.. but when do i do not do that?? ty to rinnie to dealing w me in sending ten thousand snippets.. i adore u uwu</p><p>anyway,,, that's a wrap.. pls take care and if you enjoyed this fic, i would to hear from ya'll,, comments and kudos truly make my day!!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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